Page 21 of Minas (Dying Gods #4)

Lykos

“Britomartis,” Sira moans against the back of my neck, then shivers. “Britomartis.”

I grit my teeth, shifting closer to her under our cloaks, which I’ve spread across us as a makeshift blanket. Perhaps it had been unwise to sleep beside her, especially without her permission, but there wasn’t another alternative. I couldn’t leave her unguarded and, after carrying her all last night, I needed at least some sleep.

“I can sleep beside her,” Inanna had offered when we’d finished cleaning Sira’s wounds. “She may be displeased to find a man asleep beside her.”

“She would be more displeased to find herself dead,” I’d replied sharply.

Inanna hadn’t argued. Perhaps she realized that even a barbarian like me wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to seduce his way into the good graces of a woman recovering from a sword wound. Or maybe she knows what half the court at Knossos seemed to know—that I prefer men.

Just as Sira is known to prefer women.

At least, that is what I’ve been told. If it’s true, it makes what I am aiming to achieve as difficult as flying into the sun.

Difficult, but not impossible.

“Britomartis.” Sira’s breath is hot against my skin, the throaty moan confirming my suspicion that she and Britomartis were, at some point, lovers. “Please.”

I know nothing of Britomartis, except what I have gleaned through gossip at the palace and from the whispers of the ten—now nine—women accompanying Sira through this wilderness. And, of course, from the letter I stole.

All they can tell me is that she is ‘well-respected’ and ‘a formidable ally’. Whatever that means. I suspect the only one who can tell me anything of substance about Britomartis is Sira, and so far she’s been annoyingly silent on the subject.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Sira murmurs, the words mumbled with sleep.“Mmmh. You… should have told me.”

My ears twitch with curiosity. What should Britomartis have told her ? What secrets did she keep? What has that Theran done? But then Sira’s icy lips brush against the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine and scattering my thoughts.

She’s cold. Far, far too cold, I realize with sinking dread.

I let out a breath, watching it cloud in front of my face in the mountain air, then roll to face Sira, pulling her towards me. Her hands settle against my chest and the thick leather armor I’ve kept on. A necessary but uncomfortable precaution, in case we’re attacked in the middle of the night.

I take her hands in my own, bringing them to my lips so I can warm them with my breath. Sira settles, melting against my warmth, one of her legs tangling around my own beneath our cloaks, her boots scraping against my own.

When I accidentally brush my scruff covered cheek against the back of her hand, she frowns, her nose wrinkling with adorable consternation, as if she cannot possibly fathom what is touching her.

“Oh, little Keptui,” I murmur to myself, and try to tamp down the irritating feelings of amusement and affection bubbling up in my chest. But, like a freshly tapped spring, there is no stopping it.

Last night (was that only last night?) when I carried her from Knossos, I had laughed at her drunken threats to kill my brother. The idea was ridiculous, like a kitten trying to take down a lion.

Now, after watching her walk all day without complaint, after seeing her stare unflinchingly at Drania’s broken corpse, after seeing her lay stone-faced and silent as I’d cleaned a sword wound that cut to the bone—it is clear that I grossly underestimated her.

She is strong.

Not like the men on my ship, with their muscles on show and glistening in the sun, with their rough hands and thick thighs. She’s not even strong like the warrior women who guard Knossos’ halls, who serve Astarte and Potina and Diktynna and so many other gods and goddesses—women with sharp eyes and bodies cut like blades.

Her body is not like theirs. I know this, because I saw it tonight as I cleaned her wounds. I saw the gentle curves of her thighs and stomach, the elegant arms that looked more like finely sculpted marble than flesh in the moonlight. Her’s is not a body made for fighting.

And yet, she is strong. Like a river carving out canyons, moving around the boulders and trees in its path, seeming to give way. But it’s an illusion. For all water’s softness, its course is implacable.

I stare down at Sira’s fluttering lashes, at her gently parted lips and those delicate hands clasped within my own. There is a beauty to her features. I don’t think I noticed it the first time I saw her. I like the way she feels against me too. Soft. Solid. Real.

She lets out a low hum, her face settling against my throat, her body shifting closer to mine, until her thigh is draped over mine. The movement must hurt, because she lets out a whimper, her body trembling against my own.

I think of the sword wound, of the bandage I so carefully wrapped to stop the bleeding. She shouldn’t move. I can’t let her re-open the wound, not when she’ll have to walk at dawn. I reach beneath the blankets and place my hand on the underside of her knee to hold her in place.

The moment my hand settles, I instantly question my judgement. Her body is now resting flush against my own, her core pressing against my thigh. I can feel it, can feel the heat of her through fabric.

She would not like to be held like this.

Despite the rush of guilt at holding her in place, a shiver races through me, an uncomfortable tightness drawing low in my belly. It isn’t want. It can’t be want. I don’t want Sira.

Soft lips brush against the underside of my jaw and heat surges through me, racing down my spine. My hand tightens on her leg. To keep her from injuring herself further, I tell myself. Not because I like the feel of her against me. Not because I like the feel of that soft flesh beneath my palm.

I’m just looking after her. Keeping her alive. Because if she is alive, she can become the minas. And if she is the minas, I can pledge myself to her. And she’ll accept my pledge. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she does—earn her gratitude, earn her trust. Seduce her, if she can be seduced.

And then I can rise up, can be more than a bastard-born younger brother, can move out from under King Atreus’ shadow. I can have my own ships and my own men—not a ship that I merely sail and men who would betray me for the chance of pleasing their king.

I can be free. Sira can set me free.

Sira lets out a trembling breath, the warmth of it teasing the column of my throat. The leg wrapped around my own tightens, until her core is pressed close to my thigh. The thought of what she would feel like without the layers of her skirt between us comes unbidden and my fingers twitch against the underside of her knee.

My cock twitches too, hardening where it’s trapped between our bodies, until I can hear the blood rushing like the sea in my ears and can feel my lungs struggling to expand beneath my leather armor.

The need to move, to rock against her, it becomes almost unbearable.

I must bear it. Of course I must bear it. But, in this moment, I would give anything for release.

Zeus help me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste metal. This is not seducing her. This is not winning her trust. I should not be touching her, not like this, and certainly not with this need rushing like Zeus’ own fire through my veins.

“Britomartis.” Sira’s lips whisper against my skin, and there is no mistaking the tone in that one word. The longing and hunger. “Britomartis.”

Something sharp and icy rushes through my limbs at the sound of that woman’s name on her lips. Britomartis . How can she ask for that woman, when she is in my arms? It should be my name. I want to hear my name. Lykos . That would sound so much better than Britomartis.

I grit my teeth and take a long, shuddering breath. I know I’m being unreasonable. I don’t want her like that. Of course I don’t. This is madness. Why shouldn’t she whisper the name of her lover in her sleep? Why should I be jealous of her affections? She is a means to an end and nothing more. The key to my future, to my freedom.

I wasn’t supposed to care for her at all.

The truth of it all hits me then, bitter as an arrow to the heart. I open one eye to glare at the thin moonlight dancing alongside stars through the naked limbs of trees overhead.

There can only be one explanation for this madness. One explanation for this hunger that would have me clutching my enemy to me. A woman, too, when I have never lusted after one before.

Astarte .